


Stoke

by sciencefictioness



Series: Ember [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 05:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22710253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: Maybe Arthur is right, but it tastes bitter in his mouth.  John is always the one reaching, the one seeking Arthur in the dark.John’s hands shake when he pulls them back empty.John’s chest aches when Arthur turns away.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Ember [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633126
Comments: 16
Kudos: 175





	Stoke

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to 'Ember'. It will not make much sense if you have not read it. John Marston possessed me and demanded I write this, so I did. I hope he's pleased.

They don’t pretend.

Arthur promised, and he’s never been the kind of man to go back on his word, no matter what it cost him. When camp is quiet and mostly asleep John crawls into Arthur’s tent, kissing him messy in the dark and reaching into his clothes. When John can ride out with Arthur he does, tugging him down in the dirt after they stop for the night and working Arthur’s jeans open. Easing between his thighs, taking him into his mouth. He doesn’t know what he’s doing at first, but he figures it out fast if the noises Arthur makes are any indication. 

They’re together, when they can be; at night, all alone. It is always John, kissing him. John, leaning close. Always John, reaching, waiting for Arthur to reach back.

Dutch gives them both long looks sometimes that John doesn’t try to understand, and Hosea teases him when no one else is in earshot, but that’s the worst of it. Javier and Sean make fun; Sean doesn’t actually give a shit beyond the reactions he gets out of John and Arthur, though, and Javier’s teasing is closer to an outright proposition than anything else, so John just ignores them both. 

Still, it isn’t something they do out in the open. It’s not for everyone to see; John understands. The camp is mostly a safe place, but there’s a danger in getting too comfortable with that kind of casual closeness. Out in the world it would be easy to talk a little too softly, look a little too long. Let his hands get a little too familiar. John has seen what can happen.

Has seen it happen to Arthur, years ago, back when John was too young to understand why he looked at Arthur and felt that creeping, wordless desperation in himself. Like he wanted to be sick, or cry, or throw a punch.

Like he’d do anything to make it stop.

He remembers Arthur stumbling wild-eyed from behind a saloon— drunk and spitting blood and grabbing him by the arm,  _ c’mon Marston, we gotta go.  _ There had been a man following behind him at a distance, knuckles split open and brows drawn in a fury that edged on gleeful.

_ Where you goin’ boy? We ain’t done talking. _

There had been a frantic sort of fear in Arthur’s eye, all twisted up with shame. They’d jumped on the first pair of horses they’d come across and rode out of town hard and fast. It was the first time John had ever stolen a horse. 

The first time John realized Arthur didn’t just have a soft spot for pretty girls in low cut dresses. 

He remembers Dutch’s voice hissed through his tent once they got back,  _ what the hell did you do? _

Then Arthur’s, soft enough that John could barely hear, thick with humiliation.

_ Tried to kiss him. I thought he- I don’t know what I thought. Drank too much. Bein’ stupid. ‘m sorry, Dutch. _

Dutch again, even softer,  _ we talked about this, didn’t we, son? _

They’d  _ talked  _ about it. John didn’t know what that meant.

John stayed awake a hundred different nights after that. A thousand. 

More.

John stayed awake staring at the stars and thinking about Arthur, lifted up on his toes, trying to kiss some stranger. Trying to kiss a  _ man.  _ Bleeding for it. 

John knows what can happen if they aren’t careful, not to mention that Arthur flusters easily, gets embarrassed. John reaches.

Arthur doesn’t always reach back.

He’ll fight his way through a dozen country boys when he gets too drunk at a bar or put on a fake accent and ridiculous clothes for one of Hosea’s schemes, but then back at camp John leans into his space to press a kiss to his mouth; if there’s a chance someone’s watching, Arthur will turn his face away. Pink in his cheeks, whispering low,  _ not now, John. _

John catches him next to Pearson’s wagon, tugging Arthur behind it where no one can see them, and Arthur shrugs off his hands. 

_ Bout to ride out, John,  _ and then he’s gone, leaving John standing there like a fool. 

They’re a little ways off from Dutch’s tent, everyone else busy with their chores, and Arthur leans away when John presses a kiss to his jaw,  _ c’mon John, now ain’t the time. _

Maybe Arthur is right, but it tastes bitter in his mouth. John is always the one reaching, the one seeking Arthur in the dark.

John’s hands shake when he pulls them back empty.

John’s chest aches when Arthur turns away.

John stays in his own tent that night, waiting for Arthur to come to him instead, but everything is still and silent and eventually he falls asleep. The next day Arthur gives him a look, all furrowed brows and dark eyes; there’s a question lurking in them, but he doesn’t ask. 

He doesn’t ask the next day, or the one after that. Sleeping alone is suffocating, but the alternative is worse. Being tolerated, instead of wanted.

Being indulged, instead of desired.

It’s been almost a week when they head out together, chasing down a lead for Hosea. They’ve got a long ride ahead of them, two days at least, and that’s if the weather holds. The sky is dark overhead, thunder rumbling, but it isn’t raining, yet. Arthur walks his mare up close to John’s, his expression just as clouded as the skies.

“I do something wrong?” Arthur asks as his horse picks her way up the trail, his eyes downcast, reins wrapped around his fist. John doesn’t look at him.

“Ain’t done nothing wrong,” he says, watching the trail ahead of them. “Ain’t done nothing at all. Always just me, ain’t it?”

He urges his horse faster until Arthur is behind him, something he can hear and feel but not see. It is easier to be angry without Arthur lurking in the edges of his vision looking grief-stricken.

The two of them ride in silence. Water their horses a few times, eat some jerky out of their saddlebags. They’re not not quite halfway to their destination, but the storm hasn’t broken yet, nothing but gloom and lightning threatening above them. It’s a little before sundown when they make camp in a clearing a ways off the road, under thick enough cover that if it starts raining they should still stay mostly dry.

John sees to the horses and the fire while Arthur sets up their tent. When he finishes he sits down on the ground with his back to Arthur, listening to him struggle with the tent anchors. They brought some canned food, along with some fruit, and some bread Pearson had made. John isn’t all that hungry, really. He smokes a cigarette. Stares into the fire. 

Arthur goes quiet finally. John expects him to sit down opposite him, or maybe rifle through their saddlebags for something to eat.

Arthur sits down behind him instead, knees bent on either side of John, arms easing around his waist. He tugs at John until they’re flush against each other, Arthur’s chest snug against his back. It feels so good to have him there— Arthur’s warmth. Arthur’s weight.

John huffs out a sigh through his nose and looks off in the distance.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, nuzzling under his jaw, pressing a soft kiss there. John doesn’t look at him.

He tilts his head to give Arthur room, though. Lets him mouth gentle kisses down the curve of his throat.

“Sorry for what?” John asks, voice raw. Arthur has his hands splayed out on John’s chest, curving around his hip.

“Lettin’ you sleep alone. Lettin’ you always be the one to... I ain’t good at all this. Never have been.”

John leans back into him. Reaches his hand up to sink his fingers in Arthur’s hair.

“If you don’t want me all you gotta do is say so. I ain’t gonna make you, Arthur.”

Arthur slips a hand down between John’s thighs, palming rough, insistent circles there.

“I want you,” he murmurs, right in John’s ear, his other arm wrapped tight around John’s chest to hold him in place. “Been wanting you,” he says, opening his mouth to suck at the soft skin of John’s throat.

John lets his head loll back into Arthur’s shoulder, tugging his hair, muscles tensing. He curls an arm around Arthur’s thigh, hips rolling as he grinds into Arthur’s palm. It’s been almost a week since he’s gotten off— John has been spoiled lately, body conditioned to expect Arthur pressed against him. Arthur wrapped around him. 

Arthur, everywhere.

“Missed you,” Arthur says into his skin, making a mess of him. 

His throat will be covered in bruises from Arthur’s mouth. He’s already wet in his clothes, cock leaking, pulsing under Arthur’s hand. John arches, lips parted as he gasps, boots sliding in the dirt as he tries to find leverage, to find purchase.

Arthur holds him tight and kisses his jaw and rubs at John through his clothes until he shakes apart in his arms. It’s easy, like it’s always easy.

John is so easy for him.

He stays there trembling for a while, Arthur still pawing at him, kissing his cheek again and again. Kissing his temple, the corner of his mouth. He’s hard— John can feel him— but he doesn’t seem concerned about it, so John isn’t, either. He just lets Arthur hold him like that, boneless and heaving as he catches his breath, nosing through John’s tangled hair. They eat, eventually. Crawl into their tent, tucked together in a sleeping bag, fire burned down to nothing.

The storm breaks with a rumble of thunder and a burst of lightning. They’re under a thick canopy of trees, but there are still a few raindrops beating against the tent. 

Arthur is still nosing drowsy kisses into John’s hair when sleep takes him.

Still mouthing gentle at his throat when it gives him back again.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things, here or on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/scifictioness)


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